


Before

by magicknickers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, One Shot, Silver Doe Fest, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 12:25:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicknickers/pseuds/magicknickers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lily often tells him that he thinks too much. Sometimes, Severus can't help but think that she is right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before

**Author's Note:**

> Set just before "Snape's Worst Memory." My sister read through it, but all mistakes are my own. Written for the Silver Doe Fest at lj. :)
> 
> Warnings for angst and technical canon-compliancy.

It is the summer that he is fifteen—she is a few months older than him, something that she would gloat over for hours during that summer before Hogwarts started and lines were drawn, leaving her sixteen, a full digit ahead of him—and they are lying on the ground in the woods near her house, simply gazing up at the sunlit treetops. There is this _longing_ for her that never seems to really go away, and as she lies on the dirt next to him, the length of her scarlet hair fanning out beneath her, he thinks he may die from it all. How is it even possible for a person to ache for something this much?

Because it is an  _ache_ , this feeling in his chest, and no amount of Slytherin ambition will get him what he wants this time. Maybe he will try, though, even if it gets him nowhere.

“Lily,” he breathes, eyes brushing over the fashionable, greenish-blue dress she is wearing—flimsy and short, with a high neck and no sleeves—lingering on her neck, before finally landing on her face. It is fair and flushed, her eyes closed and lips parted softly. She looks like some fey creature brought to him from another world. As he watches, her eyes flutter open, the impossible green of them meeting his own.

“Sev,” she answers, smiling softly.

Without thinking, he leans over and lightly touches his lips to hers. There is a moment in which he is sure she will push him away, that she will press her cool hand to his bony chest and _push_ until he leaves her be, but her fingers tangle in his hair instead, drawing him closer. She is kissing him back, her tongue suddenly in his mouth and his hands at her waist— _oh, Lily_.

Almost without meaning to, he allows his hand to slide up, _up_ her leg and under her dress to rest at her waist. Her skin is hot underneath his palm, and he can barely think at all any longer.

“Lily!” The sound of Petunia's voice calling from far away draws him out of the Lily-haze for long enough to attempt disentangling himself from her. She stares up at him with wide eyes and a furrowed brow, and he isn't quite sure what to say to her.

Silently, she stands up and adjusts her dress. There is grass in her hair and her lips are swollen. She is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

“I'm sorry,” he tells her, but she's already gone, bare feet silent on the ground.  
  
He can't help but think that he should have known.

*

He does not see her during the last week and three days of the summer holidays, nor does he see her at King's Cross on the day that they leave for Hogwarts. Instead of looking for her—running into Black or Potter this early into the term would surely be a bad omen, and he's learned by now not to test fate—he settles into a compartment with Avery, Rosier, Lestrange, and Black. Sometimes he misses Lucius, but today is not one of those days.

Today he misses Lily, and that familiar ache has settled in his bones.

As he stares out the window at the endless landscape that they are hurtling passed, Severus tries not to think.

*

There are days that he wishes he would die. Simply curl up into himself and _die._ To no longer have the power-hungry beast in the back of his mind, to never see his father's face again—

Oh, the thought of it tempts him.

Still, there is Lily.

She sits next to him on the first day of Potions, familiar smile spread across her face. Her hair is pulled back into a complicated plait down her back, long and shockingly red.

She is so lovely that it is painful to look at her.

“Hello, Sev,” she greets, sliding her textbooks onto the two-seater table that they will share for the rest of the term. It is as if that kiss never happened, as if she never walked away from him.

“Hello, Lily,” he answers, unable to stop himself from smiling a small, private smile. Potter and Black take the seats behind them, and he does not even care at this particular moment in time, happy as he is.

*

The first Monday of October finds him in the hospital wing, his already crooked nose broken once more. He has had spats with Potter and Black before, but he can usually heal himself afterwards. It has never gone quite this far, to the point where bones are truly breaking and skin is truly splitting.

They'd been whispering about Lily in _that way_ , though, and the thought of it alone had brought up a rage so fierce that he'd been horribly reminded of his father. Still, there is this terrifying sense of foreboding in the pit of his stomach, and it curls darkly in the back of his throat. Something would go wrong, and it would happen soon.

_“_ I fell,” he tells Madam Pomfrey when she asks. The look she gives him is sceptical, but she lets the subject drop. Potter is glaring at him from his place on a nearby cot, the cuts on his face bleeding profusely. The connection between the two injuries is not made, and for that he is thankful.

Pomfrey mends it with a single flick of her wand and allows him to leave. As he makes his way down the staircase that leads to the Dungeons, he is unable to stop himself from pressing his fingertips to the yellow bruising underneath his eyes that linger even after the healing spell.

He is used to scrapes and bruises, and really, these are no different. Lily's honour is worth more than a few bruises.

*

He often dreams of that summer day, of that kiss, his emotions entangled into something that is half-regret, half-longing.

As he lies with Lily by the lake, the sunlight turning her hair to flames, he tries not to think too much—she's always telling him that he thinks too much—or think at all, really. It is just him and Lily, together at Hogwarts, and there is nothing to ponder or sort out at this particular moment.

“I'm sorry,” she murmurs after endless minutes of silent companionship. It is a Saturday, just before the fall turns to winter, and the Hufflepuff-Gryffindor Quidditch match has sent most of the students there, towards the pitch. The uncharacteristic heat of the day has caused sweat to break out on his upper lip, and, thoroughly disgusted, he wipes it away.

“What for?” he asks her, casting a silent cooling charm on his robes.

“For walking away,” she whispers, her voice almost too hushed for him to make out the words. He does not pretend to not know what she is talking about, but chooses to just continue lying there, considering what she's said.

“It wasn't fair to you,” she continued, yanking at the grass underneath them until there are little chunks of destroyed greenery all over her hands and clothing, “It wasn't fair for me to just leave like that. I just didn't—I didn't know what to do, I hadn't thought—”

She stops for a moment. He waits, breath held, unable to stop himself from hoping.

“You're my best friend,” she finally says.

“You kissed me back, though,” he tells her after a silent beat, unable to stop himself. “Was it pity?” Lily is very still and very silent, her eyes wide and face flushed. Without really thinking about it, he sits up, leans over, and brushes the back of his hand against the skin of her cheek. She lets out a slow, shuddering breathe, eyes still wide and doe-like.

He presses his lips to hers, nearly groaning at the contact— _Lily, Lily, Lily._ There is a moment that he is sure that she will push him away, but like the last time, she tangles the fingers of one hand in his hair instead, forcing a little moan from his throat. They fall back into the grass, Lily soft and willing underneath him. He can't believe that this is happening. He is merely dreaming; he will wake up cold and alone in his bed in the Slytherin dorms, hand down his own pyjama bottoms.

After what feels like hours, he pulls away—he can't even _breathe—_ and simply looks at her.

“I love you,” he tells her, “I think I always have.” It is as if some great weight has been lifted off of him. She knows now, she _knows._

“Thank you,” she answers, a little smile on her face, and somehow, that is enough for him.

That sick feeling of something _wrong_ lingers, though, and he hopes to God that this will last.


End file.
